Bass Ink
by thimbles
Summary: A one-shot for the Etched In Ink Fest. He sees her across the floor of a smoky jazz club. Sometimes attraction runs ink deep.


**Etched In Ink Fest**

**Bass Ink.**

**Inspiration: I desperately want to get f-holes tattooed on to my back. No one wrinkles their nose up at a cello or a jazz guitar; no, they're sexy as hell. So are curvy women.**

**Thanks to Lemmonpie for beta-ing.**

* * *

><p><em>Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom. <em>

The throbbing beat of my double bass fills the dark, thick air of the crowded club. Between the mood lights and the smoky haze, it's difficult to see. A swirling mass of bodies pulses to the beat as I keep time.

_Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

It's hard to breathe down here; the air is heavy, the scent of sweat and whisky mingling with the sickly sweet smell of artificial smoke. Back in the day, cigars and cigarettes would have provided the ambience, but in these days of health and safety laws, the haze comes from strategically placed black boxes.

_Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

The drummer kicks in and the pace picks up. Bodies are moving, sweat drips, hair is thrown around and hands grope flesh in the darkened room.

_Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

The squeal of the trumpet cuts through the thick air like a knife. It's tortured but beautiful. He's on fire tonight, the plaintive wail of the horn pulling nerves taut as the dancers jerk and twist to its lament.

_Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

My fingers move more quickly over the strings, picking out the bass line. I keep one eyes on the drummer's brushes as they caress the skins, but we're guided by instinct now.

_Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

Feeling the rhythm taking hold, my eyes scan the shadows, taking in the wild uproar on the dance floor. Bodies press close, thrumming as one, as the music takes them captive.

_Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

I see her dancing alone. Her pale arms shine blue in the frantic flash of dim lights. They sway and twirl above her head. Her eyes are closed, her dark hair dripping with sweat as she loses herself in the pulsing beat.

_Ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

I kick it up a notch, just to watch her body respond to the bass notes. Her head tilts back, her tongue on her lips, as she surrenders to my change in tempo. Her hips sway, breasts bouncing, as the music caresses her body, forcing the movements from her.

_Ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

Each time my fingers pluck a string, I watch her body jerk in response. Like a puppeteer, I bend her to my will, controlling her movements with each curl of my fingers.

_Ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

She spins under the violet lights, her arms still swirling and flailing. She's dressed simply, jeans and a dark shirt. Even from the distance I can see the ink marking her wrists: a crotchet on her left wrist, a semiquaver on her right. With her hands in the air a sliver of her flesh is revealed showing a slice of blue skin. She sways again, and I falter.

_Ba-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

So fucking hot. She's curvy and round and sexy as fuck. Her body shames the bass I'm cradling: smooth, soft curves that are begging for my touch. I want her. I want to see her lose herself under my fingertips, to see her respond to my caresses, the way she is responding to my handling of the bass in my arms.

_Ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom, ba-doom-doom-doom._

By the time our set draws to a close, I'm dripping with sweat and horny as hell. Watching that girl dance and sway has been utter torture. Twice, I nearly dropped the huge instrument I'm balancing, wanting nothing more than to grab hold of her hips and pull her close to myself.

The familiar playing of Jaco Pastorius fills the club as the band hits the bar, our hair soaked with sweat, bodies still pounding with residual energy.

The black fedora is whisked off my head and I watch it bob through the crowd, disappearing in the mass of bodies still writhing frantically. I shoot the whiskey and follow after it, drawn by an invisible thread, or a neodymium magnet, I can't be sure.

I find my hat in the dark corner, perched atop a tangles mess of dark curls. Her smile is wicked as she moves to the frantic beat.

"You gonna dance with me, Mr. Jamerson, or what?" Her voice is sexy, raspy but smooth, like liquid silk.

"Jamerson?" I cock an eyebrow at her, smirking. She's just paid me a huge fucking compliment and she knows it. The girl knows her bass players and it's sexy as hell. She merely laughs at me, using my tie to pull me close. Her dark eyes dance with mischief and sex, and the groan that escapes my lips is guttural and harsh.

Roughly, brazenly, I spin her against me, tucking her back against my front. We grind and sway; our bodies controlled by the pulsing bass pounding from the speakers.

My hands seek out her curves, just as they have so desperately wanted since I first laid eyes on her. They put my imagination to shame. Soft, supple, round and smooth; she is a goddess. She's petite but curvy; and the top of her head would fit perfectly under my chin. I grip her tighter, pushing my body against hers, provocatively.

Her dark eyes twinkle as she looks over her shoulder at me, her full lips pouting as she grinds back against me. Lust and desire enflame and overwhelm me and without thought, I spin her to face me. Moving her slowly, my hands greedily exploring her curves, I back her up against a dark wall.

"What's your name?" I mutter.

"Bella."

"Of course it is." I smile, because she is.

"Do you have a name, Jamerson?"

"Does it matter?" I smirk.

She shrugs.

"It depends. What do you want me to be screaming later?" She teases.

Her eyes hold a challenge, sparking fierce and passionate as she looks up at me. Without thinking, I crash my mouth down upon those tempting, full lips. Groans and grunts escaping as we battle for dominance. She tastes like gin and candy; sex and innocence. When I feel as though my lungs are close to bursting, I pull back, looking down at her, our chests heaving.

"Edward." My voice is low, harsh, as it rips the word out between gasping breaths.

"Come."

She commands and I follow, stumbling through the streets, desire and lust crackling the air that surrounds us. We barely make it through the door she unlocks before my fingers and mouth are all over her, consuming her. Her body is every bit as responsive to each stroke of my hands, each curl of my fingers, each movement of my lips, as it was to each note I plucked from my bass.

Clothes and underthings are discarded all over the tiny apartment. And we barely make it to the soft cotton of her bed before my hands are plucking, stoking, caressing, drawing sounds of ecstasy and bliss from her curves. Playing her pleasure is as instinctive as the jazz that flows from my fingertips each night.

The sounds I can produce from her, however, are far more exquisite than the deep throb of a double bass, more heart wrenching than the wail of the horns, more insistent than the rhythm of the snare.

Her scream of frenzied ecstasy cuts through me like a whole fucking horn section winding up; and I can no longer resist joining her body to mine, groaning in satisfaction and delight.

The slap of our skin sets the tempo, the snare drum setting the pace, syncopated with the kick drum thud of her bed against the wall. My groans and growls and curses take up the bass line, whilst her moans and whimpers and squeals of pleasure soar above the heavy rhythm, weaving her soprano over the supporting sounds.

* * *

><p>When the sun dawns, I get my first real glimpse of Bella, and she takes my breath away. Soft, supple skin and smooth curves; she comes straight from the brush of Botticelli. She is Venus, reclining in the early morning sun; golden light caressing her pale flesh.<p>

I study the black ink that marks her wrists, dark against the smooth perfection of her arms.

Sighing, she rolls, her back to me, taking her music with her.

My eyes greedily move over the curves of her back and her waist, and I choke as they drop lower.

"Fuck."

I am never letting this girl out of my sight. She is made for me.

Dark, thick, black ink marks her back; the shapes as familiar to me as my own reflection.

F-holes.

Her body is a fucking instrument; and I know immediately that I will never tire of playing her.

* * *

><p><strong>I've got ideas flowing for a new multi-chap; I just really wanted to get something down for the Etched In Ink Fest.<strong>

**Shell xx**


End file.
